Chapter 27: THE COMPETITION
The building was nicer than I'd expected.
Midtown, close enough to subway access to be convenient, far enough from Times Square to avoid the tourist crush. The lobby had marble floors and a security desk that looked like it actually functioned. The elevator was silent and smooth, the kind of elevator that cost extra in monthly maintenance fees.
The building manager—a middle-aged man named Frank who wore his suit like he'd been born in it—met me on the third floor.
"This space just opened up," he explained, leading me down a hallway with neutral carpeting and tasteful lighting. "Previous tenant was a financial advisor. Moved to a bigger office after landing a whale client."
"What's the square footage?"
"About four hundred. Small, but efficient. Glass walls, natural light from the west-facing windows, private entrance from the main hall." He unlocked the door and stepped aside. "Take a look."
The space was perfect.
Small, yes, but thoughtfully laid out. A reception area with room for a couch and coffee table. A main office behind that, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city. A private bathroom tucked in the corner. Everything neutral, everything professional, everything a far cry from the folding table and client chair I'd been using in my apartment.
"The rent is $2,500 a month," Frank said, watching me take in the space. "Includes utilities and basic maintenance. You'd be responsible for furnishing and decoration."
I did the math. With the financial multiplier, I could handle $2,500. Barely, but consistently. And a proper office would bring in more clients, which would bring in more income, which would...
"There's something you should know," Frank added, as if reading my hesitation. "There's another matchmaker in the building. Floor above us. LoveLink NYC. Very professional operation."
I stopped examining the window view. "Another matchmaker?"
"Miranda Cross. Been here three years. Very particular about the building's image." He paused. "She might have... opinions about another matchmaking service in the same location."
Before I could respond, I felt it—a sharp edge in the ambient emotional field, something calculating and cold. My string detection had improved with the level-ups, and I could sense strong presences even without trying.
Someone was watching me.
The elevator dinged in the hallway.
The woman who stepped out was exactly what the descriptor "corporate matchmaker" would suggest if you fed it into an image generator. Early forties, precisely styled bob, charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her heels clicked against the marble floor with the rhythm of someone who knew exactly how intimidating the sound was.
Her eyes found me immediately. Assessed. Categorized.
"You're the apartment matchmaker," she said, making it sound like an insult. "The one everyone's been whispering about."
I met her gaze. "I prefer 'boutique consultant.'"
"I prefer 'amateur playing professional.'" She crossed the distance between us with measured steps. "Miranda Cross. LoveLink NYC. I've been in this business for twelve years."
"Ethan Cole. Red Thread Matchmaking. I've been in this business for three months."
"And yet you have a waiting list." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Impressive. For a startup."
I focused on her string, curious about what the system would show me.
[String Analysis: Miranda Cross]
[Primary Connection: Faint, direction unclear]
[Emotional State: Calculating, territorial]
[Note: Subject appears to have minimal romantic connection history. Possible avoidance pattern.]
She'd never been in love. Or if she had, it had been so long ago and so thoroughly compartmentalized that it barely registered anymore. She saw romance as a market inefficiency—something to be corrected through algorithms and intake forms and careful probability matching. Not fate. Not strings. Just data.
"The market in this city is substantial," I said carefully. "I don't think one boutique operation threatens a established enterprise."
"I don't think you understand the market." She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something expensive and aggressively floral. "High-end matchmaking isn't about volume. It's about reputation. Exclusivity. The perception of quality."
"I agree."
"Then you understand why having two matchmakers in the same building creates... confusion. Mixed messaging. Brand dilution."
"I understand why you think that."
Her eyes narrowed. Whatever she'd expected me to say, it wasn't that.
"This market isn't big enough for both of us," she said finally, each word carefully chosen. "Not the way you're operating. Word of mouth, apartment consultations, 'I found love through some guy on the Upper West Side.' It cheapens the entire industry."
"Or it expands it." I matched her tone, keeping my voice even. "Not everyone can afford LoveLink's rates. Not everyone wants the corporate experience. Some people just want to find someone who makes them feel less alone."
"And you provide that?"
"I try."
She studied me for a long moment. Behind her, Frank the building manager had developed a sudden intense interest in his phone.
"We'll see how long you try," Miranda said. "This business has a way of burning out idealists." She turned toward the elevator, then paused. "Welcome to the building, Mr. Cole. I look forward to watching your experiment unfold."
The elevator doors closed behind her. The sharpness in the air faded, replaced by normal office-building ambiance.
Frank looked up from his phone. "So... you two know each other?"
"We do now."
"She's been here three years. Very... intense."
"I noticed."
I turned back to the office space. The afternoon light was streaming through the windows now, catching dust motes in the air, making the empty room feel full of potential. Miranda Cross thought I was competition. Thought I was a threat to her market share, her brand, her carefully constructed empire of algorithmic love.
She wasn't entirely wrong.
"I'll take it," I said.
Frank blinked. "The office?"
"The office. When can I sign the lease?"
"We can do paperwork today if you want. Standard twelve-month commitment, first and last month upfront."
I did the math one more time. First month, last month, furniture, setup. It would drain most of what I'd saved. But I'd rebuild. The clients were coming. The matches were working. The system was growing stronger with every successful connection.
And something about Miranda Cross's dismissiveness made me want to prove her wrong.
We went downstairs to Frank's office. The paperwork was straightforward—standard commercial lease, nothing surprising in the fine print. I signed my name on a dozen lines, handed over a check that made my bank account weep, and received a set of keys in return.
"Welcome to the building," Frank said, handing me the keys with something that might have been sympathy. "Try not to start a matchmaking war."
"No promises."
I pocketed the keys and headed for the elevator. The building felt different now—not just a potential location but a claim I'd staked, a territory I'd chosen to defend. Miranda Cross could sneer all she wanted. I had something she didn't.
I had strings.
The elevator arrived. I stepped in, pressed the button for the lobby, and caught my reflection in the polished doors. I looked tired—the holiday rush had taken its toll—but also determined. More determined than I'd felt in weeks.
My phone buzzed. Victoria.
"Saturday is tomorrow. Still on for your VIP consultation?"
I smiled at the screen.
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Good. I have questions about your matchmaking process. Professional curiosity."
"Should I be worried?"
"Only if you have secrets to hide."
Everyone had secrets to hide. Mine just happened to involve supernatural string-sight and transmigration from a dying body. But I'd gotten good at deflection.
"I'm an open book," I typed. "See you tomorrow."
The elevator opened on the lobby. I walked out into the December afternoon, keys in my pocket, office secured, competitor identified, date-that-wasn't-a-date scheduled for tomorrow.
Three months ago, I'd woken up dead in someone else's body with no idea what was happening.
Now I had a business, a rival, a maybe-something with a baker, and a growing list of people whose lives I'd changed for the better.
The strings of New York pulsed around me as I walked toward the subway. Thousands of connections, millions of possibilities. And somewhere in that chaos, my own string—the one I couldn't see, the one the system refused to show me—was reaching toward someone or something I couldn't predict.
Miranda Cross thought she knew this business.
She had no idea.
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